The dawn light that penetrated the glass wall to the ceiling of the Manhattan master suite was cold, gray and completely unrelenting. It cut through the thick velvet curtain as a knife does, and brought out the mishmash of the night before. A few buttons of a destroyed custom dress shirt lay on the shiny oak floorboards like discarded shells and a heavy, lingering hint of peaty scotch and heavy jasmine perfume lingered in the warm stagnant air.
Nielle was directly in front of the large mirror, fully clothed, and pristine. For hours the room had been heated to a frenetic calculation, but that was gone from her face, and her face was all of professional composure. Her hand was steady and unobtrusive, and she applied a carefully and perfectly placed thick layer of high fashion, deep crimson
